I watch babies crawl
across suburban carpet
and listen to mothers talk
about wanting to move
back in with their mothers.
I think: where am I?
This is not what I want.
One baby can stand and talk.
One baby falls off the couch.
One baby boy clomps around
in a baby girl’s shoes.
This one cries. That ones claps.
Others inspire cameras to click.
I watch it all and sip
my frozen margarita, deep
red, like sealing wax, and I try
to suck out the alcohol.
What do you know.
Alcohol brings out the poets
and behind me I hear two women
talking about form. Not babies.
Count me in! But even they shift
to small talk about boyfriends
and big futures, while all I’m interested in
is grab bags and One Acts.
My friend is the bride-to-be
and she’s got a feather boa
around her neck. I have a fake
paper pineapple falling apart
on my straw. And I want to get closer
to the reason I’ve come,
but ever step is blockaded
by some mother’s big baby.
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